With blue everywhere without blue in the soul with breathless wind but without really losing it with a tenderness of the air without a carnivorous fly with a tropical tree that does not sting with the sea but not too cold and without sharks with boats you could ride on with fuss vendors that look good and don't spit sand on your tan with children who don't shout with a sun that is not too hot with a fries stand not too far away with a polard to read that is not too creepy with a sufficiently large bath towel with sunglasses without fingerprints with a parasol that doesn't fly away all the time with a smart phone with a not too aggressive ringtone with uncounted hours ahead of you with a sweet feeling of hunger reminiscent of the evening barbecue with the sound of the wavelets caressing the shore without unsightly scraping with a sky where planes wouldn't drag their illegible ads with a not too big belly that allows me to see the toes with a tanning cream that does not pull the hairs while drying with just the right amount of sweat showing that the fat melts away but without dripping with a calm relaxation with each breath hoping it won't be the last with a plunge into a half-sleep accompanied by butterflies flying in azure skies with the ability to grab a handful of sand without encountering a butt with the project of doing nothing despite this mind that gnaws at us with a pinch of infinity without thinking of what is to come .
The raw blue sea of the origins I threw myself I left the raft of conveniences and held my lady to my lap the water was tender and conducive to the advancement of the situation offshore slack with no land on the horizon immense with fine regular and shivering undulations where transparent I could make out pebbles from the bottom I swam aimlessly aimlessly infinite time .
Appeared ribs I approached the landscape was barren everything was white with ashes after the cataclysm shredded trees no leaves no greenery I walked along the coast a creek I docked a house on the edge of a pile of fossilized plants remnant of a forest of yesteryear gigantic cemetery raising its stumps towards a brazen sky a house with scaffolding all around human beings must have taken possession of the place after the terrible ordeal I was dropping off gente damsel and followed her home a two-storey stone building outside the door as we were about to knock opened like a gust of wind a breath that sucked us in a spring surrounded us a little woman dressed all in black with a soft cloth, the head covered bare feet in thick leather sandals bespectacled and wrinkled face appeared to drag us briskly into a dark interior the two women seemed to know each other I was only entitled to a furtive glance As if I did not exist but was I really visible ? through this crossing that I carried out without effort driven by a task was i not a spirit ? committed there before me simple witness a lively conversation full of joy of variations in the voice two bouquets of multicolored flowers chirping cheerful birds intertwined in the play of hands and luminous eyes a graceful song made of joy whose language I did not understand I was not one of them I was the ferryman who allowed them to meet so i disappeared strength of the work carried out .
Since then the murmur is no longer the simple melodious accord of the elements of life encountered he is thick bower in life returned and children laugh on the ascent of the stony path that runs along the now familiar house .
Don't bend before sleep be the merry slayer of mysteries for the same scene passing and re-crossing know how to say that the event is a set of phrases and that in the old quarrel between the real and the dream the door is in the midst of the effusions Vague feeling partly emerged of a cloud of lies that the wind pushes towards the mountain for haunting sentences convert the spoken word in grayness of convenience .
be the porcupine shrewd admonitions and if the step hurries you like the snail on its shiny path return to your barns the useless package of substitutes gird the cloth with light go to the party and discover your heart.
I advance of marble in the first line in this possibility to join us in our nuptials of real truth .
I walk fingerprint memory from my throat sort l'ineffable at the young men's crematorium refusing exhaustion .
And since life is "to see" I dissolve on the shore of grace in fraternal drowsiness cutting into thin colored strips the much sought-after face the face of childhood the face of every man in search of himself .
And if everything was a matter of silence much more than music .
It's closed but be careful there is the insubordination of full light there is the straightness of a supple bow vigilance there is the threshold of the sludge of great washings there is the ambition to walk in the footsteps of your name there is the intimate circumcision of the range of exchanges extended to the confines of the universe there lies the responsibility of an impeccable conscience there is the seam assembling with a scarlet thread the fabrics of flesh and of the word there is the passage that the step of the sheep tramples angry conversation on the customary path there is the leaf of a tree let loose in the wind from a distant land there is the night of pains and temptations hemmed in by the rising dawn . So goes the nave fulfilling its office mistress of exile and vanity welling up of tears at the bedside of finitude transmitter apart from sex fortune and power the message that neither wears out the heart nor dries up the blood the message of the warriors much more than that of the spouses the fiery message out of fatigue and regret the message unveiled by seeing and hearing it the message of the joy of final vows the message of grace and smile the message of the dew that fell on Saint John's morning the message of the fruits that we offer The message that never closes gratitude of the day .
The man holds the keys to his fragile balance . Man is the creator of both his hell and his paradise .
Sometimes when
black clouds are gathering and that the rout plants its black flag, your
brain scrambles, tu cries. A cry beyond pain and call. A
cry to abyssal causes. A cry of a human being in the grip of an encounter
unlikely. A cry that disturbs our usual understanding. An outrageous cry
who wants to show us something. But what ? What did you see ? As for your
emotions, I don't have the key to decode them .
You wander in these
lands between dog and wolf, where the greyness of a frost-saturated winter
grabs images from yesteryear, where the vapors of the backwater of the origins
alter consciousness, was, where hallucinations and visions meet .
You are between life
and death but life is the strongest, even in the last trip, and it's
which allows us to feel the fragility of this life, his unique face and
that strong from this ultimate experience we are of flesh, of mind and soul
great mystery transcribers, we the innocent, we the followers of
Wonder .
You scream and I
hear you through the corridors of this retirement home that you didn't
never could do yours, so much was your difficulty in communicating and adapting
big .
They are no longer
“Madame !” that you utter but long moans that rise from the
depth of your being to address someone undefined, that you can't
appoint. save you from danger ? Relieve you ? Help you get through this ordeal,
this upheaval of being which sinks into the labyrinth made of traces
memories and impasses ? You don't know what to ask, your emaciated hand squeezes
my hand. You don't even ask me to come home anymore, at home .
your functions
vitals have been reduced to eating and sleeping, and when I walk away your
prolonged complaint grinds my chest like a vice and wrings my heart .
When I leave you
after kissing you, I feel like this will be the last time ; and
then I'm not going back because I don't know what to do to help you,
to reassure you, to calm you down. Cowardly I abandon you, and then I
makes you feel guilty !
Dès que je quitte l’étage où tu résides et que l’ascenseur atteint le Rez-de-chaussée, je n’entends plus tes cris mais néanmoins ils continuent de résonner au plus profond de mon être. I am abandoned. I'm left out, me the evil born … maybe like you. J’essaye de me faire à l’idée que je n’ai plus de papa, I'm sad, I am upset, a big ball rises from my belly. I calm down, I manage the situation while undergoing a visceral tearing. Your cries follow me when I meditate, when I walk in the rain, dans le vent, under the sun and I hear your voice calling me, gently, très doucement telle une caresse, your caress, que tu me prodiguais quand dans mon petit lit d’enfant j’avais tant de mal à m’endormir .
You don't ask
definitely more help, you seem to be no longer asking for news from
your children. You are alone and the fog that envelops you suggests the flight of
crows on a chilly summer morning in the tall trees that lined the
canal in Briennon .
Tu es là à attendre qu’une porte ultime s’ouvre dans le mur de cette chambre que tu n’as jamais investie. You are the gateway to an opportunity not to be missed. Tu attends un dernier train qui siffle dans le lointain mais qui tarde à apparaître. You have nothing more to give. Ce qui t’appartenait ne t’appartient plus, what was your home, you have been dispossessed. Ton appartement a été occupé, la vaisselle du dimanche et des jours de fête a été éparpillée, even your signature was copied. of hope, point. De sourires sur ton visage, point. La trompette dont tu jouais à été offerte à l’enfant d’une soignante. Your last piece of luggage is packed, et puis d’ailleurs ça fait bon temps que tu n’as plus de bagages. You gave, … we have taken .
Occasionally, in
moments of lucidity, you could have asked for it to go a little faster, that the
end of the tunnel opens to the large terminal light, so they say. But the
do you know what's next ? I so wanted us to talk about this.
I would have liked so much that you take this initiative… And it is now that
I hear, that I measure all that a father is able to give to his
children when he is aware of being part of the great chain of
generations and that his own life, unique and sacred, is at the service of others .
Maybe this
will be tonight. Maybe in a few days. become cold. Let the bones
break like glass. That the blood no longer circulates. That sudden stillness
be a relief after suffering. Let the tick tock of the pacemaker make a
hellish noise in this inert body .
The black vehicle
still hasn't arrived. But what are they doing all these so-called alive
to drink pastis, to play belotte, to wallow in front of the TV,
as it freezes on the edge of the pack ice ! ” I wait, me, the hearse !
“
I remember the
tour of France that we went to see with Charlot, in the years
fifty. It was a step against the clock. The last runner to pass
was Anquetil who had the yellow jersey, and then behind had followed the
broom wagon. The party is over, we had returned by the train from Versailles
to get off at Pont Mirabeau station and return home via
Avenue Emile Zola. I held at arm's length a paper bag containing
some small advertising objects that I had managed to catch on the way
of the publicity caravan. It was sunny, a July sun was playing with
the foliage of the avenue. I liked this transition from shadow to light and I
I jumped on the perforated cast iron plates that surrounded the trees. I was
happy to have spent some time with you, papa, my little daddy… And this
broom wagon that is waiting !
Four years ago
and half, when mom left us, I stayed with you for a week rue de la Jarry. It was there
last time i was really close to you. You never asked me
questions other than strictly material. You never cried. Never
you did not spontaneously evoke any memory. If sadness there was you wouldn't tell me
didn't show it. I was doing it “delicate” with you so as not to make you
glimpse my deep distress and I did not push you so that both of us
wept over the departure of our wife and mother. I was afraid that you
you collapse. I was already measuring in the silence that you showed – it is always
me who started the conversation – that your mental state was disturbed. You
seemed elsewhere from all this. Your lack of emotion made me cold in the
back. I couldn't find the words that would have made you say, contact you
in your sensitivity. I knew you were already a bit gone .
The 23 June, date
mom's birthday, i will pray for you, papa. That you are
of this world or elsewhere it doesn't matter, you're already so much gone. Your
departure, you anticipated it a long time ago. You sold the house in Saint-Flour
as if to close an episode of your life, as if to burn his familiar objects
because after you there would be nothing, nothing but strangers who will search
in your business, nothing but invaders who will destroy everything. You have not
not insisted that we keep this family anchorage. You gave us
the money from the sale without returning you, without saying
speech. Emotions, point ; as if something about you had died
for a very long time. You were already on the way out. In the weeks that
followed you had a serious health problem from which you luckily escaped. And
since you've been waiting for the sequel. it was not your time. The line of demarcation
past, you acted like you shouldn't turn around. matter of life or
of death ? Flight forward ?
As soon as the
terrible senility overwhelms you, that you no longer have your head, than the trinity
depression, Alzheimer's and dementia forces us to the test that we
have to cross, you and we three your children who are thus summoned in
as beings of conscience and compassion, of vulnerability, of transparency
and in cold blood, of reflection and understanding to what is ; we owe ourselves
to be witnesses of the great work of life and death to sustain us
in welcoming and helping each other in order to lend a hand to those of our loved ones
in need. We should have nothing to hide. We should
stay united. We should talk to each other. What is left unsaid only engenders a withdrawal into
self, rejection and ignorance of the other and much misfortune to our children and
little children by the shadow they will cast on our collective memory .
When I hear the
knell of finitude at the steeple of existence, I listen, I see, I am
sad, I'm crying, I am alone and my loneliness I consume it with my loved ones,
I share it with my loved ones who love me. I chew it, I her
distills, I her “and eat”, this absolute option of finitude, for
that it nourishes me and helps me to grow .
Yes, I will pray
for you, to accompany you, to support you, you dad, body and soul
associates, to walk with you this path that goes from your home to the cemetery where
stay mom .
Papa, I you
promise to remember your life story, and to honor this sketch
existential that you transmitted to me in order to make fruitful the life that you have given me
data, so that this desire to do more than what has been given to us flourishes
given. And this, so that it is “the good work” useful
for those who will follow us .
there is a time
unreasonable where we put the dead at the table for a last meal, out of hunger and
material thirst but full of symbolic and spiritual hunger and thirst, in order to
to collect the crumbs of life that will allow us to grow on our
path of knowledge and wisdom, to give meaning to one's life and to fade away
in osmosis of love before what is .
Papa, dans ta démence, emanates an aura where emerges, pure and clear, a deep value. Broken ego gives way to human essence. Et pour celà tu es précieux .
The 23 June, I
will think of mom, I will think of you dad, I will think of you two, my brother and
My sister, and will promise to live these last years that are mine
allotted, as simply as possible, in listening, modesty, respect for
each person's personality, support and advice, to all who will be
difficulty .
We should not
hurt us and have the courage to exchange, to get in touch with our
relatives, with others, even if it seems difficult because not very usual
in our family culture. Silence if it can be self-regenerating
self in meditation and contemplation, is harmful as, transforming
in silence, he extinguishes the lamp of hope .
And since around here everything ends with a song or a kind word, let's say that you shouldn't weigh on your neighbor, nor on others, nor on this earth full of the mystery of creation so that we, the “alive on the move”, remain in communion with the Other who will recognize that we are all brothers if we love one another .
This tile made of red hexagons . This avenue of rustling trees of a rainy spring . The staircase with the wrought iron railing . This day under the door of the room which lets rise the bursts of voice coming from the dining room . These windows with their old-fashioned fittings . This poorly fixed wooden shutter that beats against the wall when a gust of wind rises . Like the cupboard with its mirror glass from a time stored .
Be there in the shadow of things in place sitting in the smashed chair webs of badly negotiated ideas enturbaning my thoughts memories chanted by a small inner voice I took my clicks and my slaps picture box and moleskin notebook to go on a pilgrimage to the scents of yesteryear .
Cold and rain changed the dark air in the middle of the afternoon discrete passage to this state of listening allowing to be disposed stone on which to build the city of brothers Heavenly Jerusalem without her angels made visible Jerusalem just existing to welcome the soul walker in search of a probable detour towards the premonitory state of repentance looking for breath and light to ride on researcher returned to his task the hoop of a then obsolete croquet game before the mallet of emptiness the promoter of desired encounters those that availability without waiting allows to hatch even during off-peak hours as the crumpled song of rain and mixed colors rises from between the ash trees and the elms in the bright and fragrant garden phrasing of tears in spring at the confluence of sound loads of raging water scraping invisible pebbles pots of giants .
Some water plenty of water assigned to the incessant growl of an animal whisper rustling of a voice against the basalt wall droplets of pearls in tune with a guttural sound clapping hairy hands against the bloody rock.
Arise the monotonous allegiance the continuous beam the stratified complaint of the ecobuages of the city .
The alphabet expresses itself in its dissonances these brothers whose craftsmanship was carried away by the burle towards the valley of permissiveness .
Only the sound of a bell over the stream of water maneuver on call the men of the magnanerie while it's still dark on this winter morning to cross this wooden bridge the clogs striking with their fittings the threshold of the workshop .
Happy event that the arrival of bales of silk bristling with a thousand iridescent threads off the coarse burlap stopped as hesitant to enter the ghoul where the mash of scrap metal associated with the screeching of scratches gurgle smoothing fine textiles . Instant marauding of the boy behind the building quickly picking up the full bag placed on the sticky bench in the locker room time for a leap in the shadows out of the ravine of expectations to get drunk free the beating heart on the stony path outside the promiscuity of the bottom and high hearts bring to the cottage without fire the black streaks of a printed update around her face chestnuts and onions oings .
out of age message spirit-lifting floricultural weary genuflexions on the way to the three crosses between Golgotha and the finitude of Mary .
Only women saints admitted to hold by the arm passing males for a smile riots disappear in the thicket looking for sea buckthorn that they will ooze on the stone of fevers story of getting started without countdown on the shell path .
Only women saints admitted slowly progressing towards love and compassion laden with armfuls of golden broom to the measure of the high barn doors burrowing under their ample skirts the skulls of the dead the loins girded with a cloth si rouge than the rising sun by its iridescent disc evokes the holy chrism of the anointing of Holy Wednesday that of the day makers as long as betting is allowed on saffron suin of master Cornille's gray mare shaken with pleasure at the sight of this flour so white than the powerful movement of the millstone stone against stone makes you fly away according to the trills of the blackbird at dawn of a May morning .
To have you
met fills me with joy, toi, different from me and yet so close .
You accompany me
and calm me when the weather is stormy, black thoughts rise from
my bitter chasms and that my repartee are excessive .
Your firm anger
that one might think feigned are to me the vibrant and saving brainstorm
when touched by a slumber of attention and soul I stammer
vague responses to the risk of novelty .
I love you, without
the shadow of a doubt, that even our joint arrival on another planet does not
could exempt us from expressing our mad desire in the mirror of seeking and
to understand all about what life is .
I admire you
beyond any restrictive consideration, with a willing and broad admiration,
that even the late flight of a partridge in front of our steps could not distract us .
And yet God
knows that I like the red partridges which, with their heavy and flat flight, could
wake up with a saving start the sleeper of the valley that I have so often
tend to be .
In front of our
energy of standing men charged with the possibilities of future realization, the
earth, our field of activity, is so vast, powerful and fragile at the same time,
sensible, loving and receptive, that we even hear the whisper
from the beginning of beginnings .
Your word turned
towards the eternal urgency to state the essence of things allows me to continue
my way, freed from all shackles, towards the clear sowing of my
deepest gardens .
You welcome me
with so much generosity, promptness and accuracy that I do not even have the
time to thank you. As soon as I see you, I'm on the prowl to consume you
with my head and my heart, and as soon as I consume myself, as soon as you give me
penetrate me, then you disappear, so i fund .
you are mother, big
sister, angel and felibrige of my heart for whom the emotion that I feel at your
regard is immediately transformed into “senses” clear and deep in the service
of my commitment of fidelity to your teaching. You, my luminous arrow .
And then I have you free
chosen as my friend when you don't choose your family .
And I would be
always the bow to bend your reiterated thoughts with force as it is
imperative for you that we take them into account. The current state of the world
depends .
Your message gets through.
Your word is queen. The fluidity of your vision marries me. The tracks that you
leave behind, I collect them at the height of my perceptions and
my mental capacities to integrate them for the time of a communion .
Your face is
inscribed in the depths of my soul and as soon as a breath comes to pass,
immediately I get up to take up this mysterious song that during one of our
first meetings I whispered and who has always accompanied me when
I cross your path .
Your gaze signs
the authorities of these places of peace and summons to the vigilance of a
attentive flame of relevance .
If it happens to
lose us some time and find you, no preamble is required
in the first look you give me. You are the, I'm here, corps, soul and
spirit ready for the task before us, this great work woven with warmth
human, intentions of kindness and demands for understanding about our
posture to hold in our troubled times .
And if you go
travel, know that here or elsewhere there will be room for your disciples, for
my brothers and sisters in you, to perpetuate the fire from between the waters and the
skull, and tell us about what still needs to be done .
And since life
is a continuous quest and pilgrimage, you are the pilgrim's bumblebee, the precious stick
which sustains me and with which I calligraph in the dust of the path the
sacred letters of our universal writing .
